Waking Up Alive
by Moa in the Moon
Summary: How Sandor Clegane became The Hound, and how saving a little bird might save him. The story went down with the emails, so I put it back up.
1. Waking Up To Stars

"Ten drops in water is enough, even for a boy your size." The Maester said to him, giving him a vial to carry with him in his pocket. "Make your bed, say your prayers, and beg for the Mother to forgive what you have done. Mention this to no one. After you have taken the tonic lay your head to sleep, and soon the world shall be finished with you. With the blessings of the Gods you should wake up in the other world. Pray for mercy that you aren't sent to the Seven Hells."

Sandor nodded his head. At ten and two years he was big for his age, like every Clegane that had come before him. His size wasn't enough to save him from his brother, and he saw no future before him. He'd pleaded with the Maester for weeks, begging constantly for something that would give him relief of this horrid life, some vague thing that could make the pain of life dissipate and end forever.

His burns were bad enough, but he could not live with the death of the last of his true kin. His father was dead, and his sister had gone with him, like a lark following the sun. Her bones, though, were still displayed in the courtyard, as with the bodies of Gregor's whores. Sandor wanted to join her there, and stay dead forever, where nothing burned and there was no more terror. Only blackness, and the promise of Gregor never finding him.

He hated Gregor during his beatings- no longer for being whipped and tortured, but for the fact he always woke up alive. His brother constantly spared him, toying with him as though he were a plaything made of wood or straw. He longed to be beaten to death, or to have his throat cut, or his brains smashed against a wall, but it never happened. He always held onto his meager life, never moving to the next realm. He was stuck on this earth, awaiting punishment for whatever sins he committed against his very own blood.

His brother was already a knight made, and yet he'd still come riding from in Casterly Rock to take care of his household and Keep and beat the holy hell out of Sandor- constant, predictable, awful. Sandor already bore more scars than most warriors. His brother had no reason to make his trips back to his home- Sandor believed it was only to relieve himself from the pains and boredom of duty, and to pretend to have some freedom with his fists and his weaponry. He'd begun bringing troupes of friends with him, all anointed knights, all thirsty for the blood show that Sandor provided. Whores and kitchen girls always acted as the dessert for their free week-ends. He'd slaughter them and leave their bodies to decay in the house. Sandor was forbidden from removing their corpses in his brother's absence, so they stayed on, like guests decomposing in the gloomy halls.

Gregor was due back home in a few days, and Sandor was determined to be dead by his arrival. He wanted to be a stinking corpse by the time his brother found him. It was the only revenge that he could imagine- depriving him of the joy of once again torturing his own brother.

Sandor climbed the stair's from the Maester's room and made for his bedroom. Where he'd once had a real bedroom with a mattress and pillows, he now had a bundle of straw on the floor covered in rags. He'd been banished to sleep in a sort of closet, a small windowless cell with a candle and a chamber pot. Sandor went into his room and closed the door behind him, making himself ready for his last thoughts.

He prayed silently to the Mother- begging her to take his life once and for all. Rage coursed through his veins as a few hot tears rolled down his cheeks. His hands, pressed into a prayer, were shaking. His shoulders trembled while he pleaded with her- his wish was simple: he only wanted to die. His prayers lasted longer than he thought they would. He opened up his soul, telling the Mother of all of his sorrows and fears, confessing his sins to her openly. He wanted to go from the life in some state of purity so that he wouldn't be cast off to the Seven Hells- so that he could meet with his sister and father and mother again, and perhaps feel the love of the Maiden on him as he opened his eyes in the other world.

When he concluded his prayers he didn't bother separating the vial of liquid into water. He drank down the entire contents, and laid down onto his makeshift bed. Sleep came quickly and with no effort, like a storm descending. He knew that he was already on his way, that he would quit the Keep and the world forever. He felt almost blessed before cold darkness swallowed his thoughts. The last thought he had was of the Mother and the Maiden, and then of nothingness.

* * *

"You fucking piece of shit, wake the fuck up!"

There was a boot to his stomach, and then a blow to his face. He woke up seeing stars.

"I said wake the fuck up!"

Another blow, followed by another. He could feel himself being pulled from his room, three sets of hands grabbing at him. There was a strong set of hands around his throat, choking him, while the blow from a boot landed on his groin. He was outside of himself; he could register the pain without really feeling it. His mind wasn't sharp enough to wake itself from its stupor. He could hear himself choking and sputtering, gagging on the hands clasped around him. His legs were flailing, but he wasn't really there.

"Get up!"

He couldn't move. He couldn't focus his eyes.

He was being dragged up by the back of his head, clumps of already thin hair being pulled from his scalp. A swift punch landed on his eye and his throat constricted. There was a blow to his stomach, and the hard hit of the broadside of a sword against his back.  
"Move, you piece of shit."

Gregor was giving the commands from somewhere, and it was Gregor's friends that were administering the beating. He was being dragged quickly down the hall, pummeled and beaten while his feet struggled to meet the floor. His body was moving automatically. Soon he was being dragged down a stairwell, out into the rain, through the courtyard. Every step was met with another hit, until he was well on his way back to the darkness of unconsciousness. Sandor knew that he didn't cry out, though, and that there was something to be said about that. He took his beating with the stoicism of a silent sister, completely void of expression.

His face met the stench of mud. He was being thrown into a kennel. Someone was on top of him, beating at his face, opening the wounds from his burns. His hands and feet were being tied up, and someone slipped a collar around his neck.

And then, nothing. The door to the kennel was closed, and Gregor's companions walked away laughing. He could hear Gregor's heavy footsteps approaching him- slow and deliberate.

"You want to die like a little cunt?" Gregor asked, through gritted teeth. "The Maester told me everything, you little coward shit. If you want to die like a bitch, you'll live like a bitch. You aren't a Clegane, you are nothing but a fucking dog. From this day forward, you will be a dog. You will be called a dog, live in the kennels and eat like a fucking dog. When you are one day called to court you will only be a dog there. You will die like a dog, you flea bitten shit."

Gregor kicked Sandor hard in the jaw, waking up another sea of stars in his eyes.

"Fucking dog shit." He turned away, leaving him out in the cold. Sandor stayed in that kennel for the better part of a year, until finally he was called to court to answer to his master. A dog he became.


	2. Waking Up To Stillness

**Thank you for everyone who reads my stories. You are the wind beneath my wings! If you read this, follow it or favorite it, please comment. It keeps my brain juices well oiled.**

**Love,**

**Moa**

* * *

The Hound's eyes opened to the dark stillness of his bedroom. The sun had not yet risen, but he could almost feel the impending day upon him. The moments before the sun rose were always the quietest- he'd always find himself awake when other men were still asleep in their beds, when the night guard was finally feeling their fatigue and the ache in their legs. He'd quit having the nightmares years ago and was no longer loathe to lie alone in the darkness. The smell of warm bread would sometimes waft through the damp early air, cutting through the moldiness of the King's Guard's chambers. These first few moments were almost always painless- before the swell and return of a bad hangover was on him, before he had to swing his feet over the side of his bed and rise for the day.

A bed- that much he had. His room wasn't paltry, and it was certainly better than his days of sleeping his brother's kennels. He had his bed, larger than most. His rooms were large and dark and mostly quiet, insulated in by thick walls of stone. It was always cool in his room- the only sunlight that came in was from the large window in his solar. By virtue of habit he kept his rooms sparse, without any sense of decoration. There was nothing about him that could be described as soft- it lacked a woman's sensibility, as one might say. He kept his space clean, his sheets folded, his fire pit empty. He lived like a ghost might live, passing through but never really affecting his environment.

He'd learned not to think- he could push his thoughts down so deeply into his body that they seemed to dissipate into thin air. Their only remnant was the vapor trail of rage and anger left behind.

As long as he didn't think of her. As long as he didn't think of her.

If the girl crossed his mind, he had to go and drink- there was no way around it. A single errant, rebellious thought could send him reeling into the places that he was determined not to visit. She could send him back out to his kennel in a moment, and before long he'd be shivering in the mud, waiting for a raven to come pick his flesh off of his body. She could force him into watching his sister's last effort to survive- her hands bloodied as she tried to stop the blade from sinking into her belly, her knees collapsing underneath her, her last words murmured about their child- Gregor's bastard made in his sister's belly. He'd feel the nausea rise when he remembered the girl getting stripped in front of the court during her beating- even worse when he remembered the way his cock stirred, along with every other man in court. The proof that he really was a dog- Gregor had been right. He was a bitch's whelp, an animal.

Before she'd come he'd been able to control his thoughts- he'd established an order that was near clockwork. All hope had been lost over a decade ago. He'd never sire a son, take a wife, hold lands, win titles, win hearts. He'd become content in his duty as the King's dog- his duty was simple, and every day felt like penance. He'd been born rotten, to a rotten family. There were no Gods to save him, there was no man to judge him- there was only himself, and his rancor, and his hatred. Spilling blood was the sweetness that made up for his own failure. Sweetness in a life of rot. He was a ruined man with a fiend's visage.

The worst thoughts were the accidental ones- he'd gotten drunk and fucked a kitchen maid and found himself nearly saying her name. He'd wake up in the middle of the night and try to feel for a body that wasn't next him, reaching out in the dark for a figure that was no where near. In those moment's he imagined that she, that she, that she what? Loved him? That thought was so distant that he couldn't possibly allow it to visit him, even in its hollow shadow form. When she'd slammed into his while running up the Serpentine Stairs he'd almost lost himself completely. Sandor almost woke up from his slumber beneath The Hound.

He'd been getting meaner, lately- meaner than he'd been in some time. Two days ago he'd broken a squire's arm in the training yard after the pup had dropped his sword. A green boy in every way- the boy had made the same mistake that every other man makes at some point on their way to being a fighter. The Hound struck him with the broadside of his sword and broke the boy's bone without so much as a second thought.

Waking in the darkness of his room he had to fight to suppress that which had previously been so natural.

* * *

Sandor sat warm by the fire, a boy no older than five years. He watched it pop, the flames jumping like silly dancers- he delighted in the way sparks would crackle and bounce off of the wood, little semi-rainbows of yellows, reds and blues. His sister had him wrapped in a fur, sitting on her lap. She'd given him a small cake to eat- a round chocolate hand cake covered in pitted cherries and white winter strawberries. They were still in the midst of a long winter. Gregor was away with their uncles, and the house was covered in quiet.

"Did you remember to say your prayers this morning, Sandy?" His sister Ysabelle asked quietly, running her fingers through his black hair. He enthusiastically nodded his reply, still chewing on a mouthful of his cake.

"I'm glad that you remembered to pray. You must always pray to the Seven, and remember to be good. If you pray every night the Seven will know you, and once day you and I and papa and mama will be together again in their kingdoms."

"What about Gregor?" Sandor asked, concerned.

"Yes. He shall be there with us, too." She said quietly. "You must always remember to say your prayers and to be good. You must be a true knight always. You must be good to all things- from the smallest bird to the greatest bear. Always be truthful and just. You must help all those who need help. You must love and be kind and kingly. Can you be all of those things, Sandy? It would please me greatly."

He turned and smiled at Ysabelle, his gray eyes wide with happiness. His cake was smeared around his mouth. "I shall be a true knight, sister!"

"You shall be, I know it." Ysabelle kissed him on the forehead, and once again smoothed his hair down. Sandor had never known his mother. She'd died bringing him into the world. She was all that he had for a mother, and she cherished her little brother like a prize. She hated Gregor with all of her soul. He'd tell the small child that he'd put their mother in the ground, always reminding him that he was a killer of women, the worst kind of person to be. Every time Gregor spoke to Sandor she could see him chipping away at his very soul- it broke her heart.

She embraced her brother tightly, smelling his sweet-scented hair.

"Sing me a song? The song about the birdies and the animals?"

Ysabelle smiled and opened her mouth to sing:

The warrior made the animals, the animals with teeth  
to protect the fairest maidens, the maidens in their sleep  
The maiden made the birds, the birds to sweetly sing  
to soothe the wild animals, the animals with teeth.


	3. Waking Up After The Fire

**I was updating my story, and somehow I erased it instead. So, sorry about that to my followers. Hopefully you'll get this. :( This chapter occurs after the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Our Hound didn't desert his cause- but tomorrow is another day, isn't it?**

**Please enjoy, and comment comment comment!**

**Love,**

**Moa**

* * *

The Hound struggled to keep his eyes open; he'd not slept a bit the night before, and the night before that had been a waste. The sweltering heat of the city was making his skin feel heavy and lifeless, his eyelids felt like they were hewn from the same steel that made up his armor. Before him was a meal untouched, and a glass of wine that needed refilling. He had to go slowly, regrettably slowly.

The stench was unbelievable. In the great hall there were chairs and banners and festivities, columns of sweet incense rising in the air, the aromas of spices and meats and bread having been cooked- _always the fucking bread_- yet he could smell the stench as though he were sitting upon it. Corpses rotting away on the humid beach, unburied in the sand. The burning from the wildfire left a coat of ash on everything. The air was laden with the scent of singed hair, skin melted from bone, innards being boiled from the outside in. He could smell the wooden planks that had gone back into the bay, the awful tangy scent of fabric melded to flesh. All of the perfumes in Dorne wouldn't chase away the scent. It made the plate of meat sitting before him seem untenable.

He felt like a lady at high tea, not like a man who'd just seen thousands slaughtered within the window of a day. The meal was served in a dainty fashion, only a small part of the King's Gratitude. His liege Lord sat at the head of the table, circled round by the gold laurels of a King's Victory- a red sash draped around his body, his golden hair set into place, his crossbow resting beside his chair. He came into the hall like a warrior-conquerer. Who else remembered that he had been a mouse hiding behind his mother's skirts? Across from the Hound the newly knighted Ser Bronn sat, drinking his own tankard of ale. The Hound had spent most of the meal watching his movements- Ser Bronn was constantly fidgeting with something, be it the corner of the napkin thrown across his lap or his cutting knife. It annoyed The Hound to no end, the way he couldn't sit still. It was as though there was some spell cast upon him that made him need to constantly move himself about, make his presence known. It showed a complete lack of restraint that goaded The Hound. Ser Bronn had saved his life the night before and he'd been grateful for it. Now he wondered if it wouldn't have been preferable to die in battle. Waking in bed the morning after made him ache with something that he couldn't quite process, and wanted to hold at bay as long as he could.

As much as Ser Bronn frustrated him, he'd rather observe him than Ser Meryn or Ser Boros. The two men were seated side by side, and seemed enamored with each other as though they were lovers. Their lust seemed to be piqued by the violence that had just occurred and had not abated.

It seemed too soon for a celebration.

* * *

King's Landing was alive- buzzing with too much movement. The kind of rush and bustle that had overtaken the city, and more specifically the Red Keep, was off putting. He trudged through the halls, eager for sleep. He was delirious with blood- it was all over him. He could smell it, like liquid copper. Having to shove past endless crowds of hall boys, guards, chamber maids and tentative revelers at the hour when he should be waking made him feel ill at ease. Hours before those same halls were inhabited only by the ghosts of the Red Keep. Only a spirit wanted to be seen standing outside of a sturdy door. All about were the remnants of whispers. Every so often he'd hear a low sung prayer, or someone mumbling the name "Stannis Baratheon", shaking their head or trembling.

The songs were the worst. They floated on the air as he walked slowly towards his chambers.

He'd had half a mind to go and collect his own song. His moment for deserting had past- his moment for taking the Little Bird away had slipped through his fingers, and now had dissipated into the smoke heavy air. His opportunity to collect his song was gone, like the sun that sets behind some great mountain. Mayhaps the fool Ser Dontos had already spirited her away. Had that been the case he'd have no need to think on her. She'd surely be dead by this hour. It took a dog's restraint not to go searching for an answer to that question, and the will of a smithy to force himself into his bedroom rather than to her. He was too fucking drunk to even make it to her room, much less force himself in. He'd be a worse fool than the imbecile Ser Dontos.

Shoving into his room, he found that he wasn't alone. The Master of Coin had made a gift of his pleasure house to each member of the King's Guard- a show of his great appreciation- a full breasted whore wearing a yellow dressing gown, a bronze diadem woven through her dark hair. Without word or warning she began to undo her dress for him, slowly peeling away onion layers of fabric, dancing in a smell semi circle, like a sacred prostitute in a temple.

"Oh fuck me." He'd whispered. He'd meant it as a show of his disgust, but she took it as a command.

* * *

There would be no eating today- not a chance. Even if the smell were to abate, he wouldn't be able to work up an appetite. Something horrid was happening in his head- a thread had been pulled out, and he could feel himself unraveling. He'd nearly cried the night before, after he'd pulled out to cum into his own hand. He'd shoved the wench from his room, washed himself, and found that he was dry heaving, trying to keep a torrent from escaping his eyes. He hadn't cried since his childhood beatings. His defenses were withering, and he couldn't will them into their normal order.

"Dog, are you listening to me?" Joffrey asked, sharply, breaking The Hound from his stupor.

"Yes, Your Grace." He replied, turning to watch the boy that he'd practically raised. He had the look of a frightened creature who'd been taken ill with rabies. His expression was unnatural, a bastard's visage.

"Then why didn't you laugh?"

"I was lost in my thoughts, Your Grace."

"Your thoughts, Dog? Tell me, what does a Dog think about except for digging up a bone or chasing his own tail?" The table erupted with a forced kind of laughter, a grimacing revelry that was surreal after the scene that had put them about this strange banquet. "What do you think of my discharge of the Stark bitch?"

Joffrey was always going on like this- asking questions, needing approval for his every action. He'd done it since a child, and The Hound was exasperated with it.

"I thought it was deserved and well thought out, Your Grace." He offered, taking a large swig of wine.

"It was, wasn't it?" Joffrey leaned back into his chair, his serpent smile twisting the corners of his mouth. "Tell me Dog, have I told you about my newest idea? I've thought of a perfect method of target practice for my crossbow."


	4. Waking Up To Death

**I hope that everyone is having a great week. My husband just left for Ecuador, I am on a vacation from work, so there should be enough time for quite a few updates. Thank you to all of my readers. Enjoy!**

**-Moa**

* * *

The weeks passed brutally slow. Time itself seemed to have become a tyrant, raging against everything that it confronted: the wind seemed to move at a dead pace, struggling even to roll a grain of sand against a marble floor. The weather was too clear, the last revelries of summer stretching out, as though they would last forever- an eternity of hours in a sea of pleasantries. The Flowers from Highgarden had already the task of laying their own roots, choking out all of the plants that did not suit their purposes. The Hound realized that he was quickly becoming an anachronism. He'd soon be in the shoes of Barrister Selmy, being dismissed like a flea from a dirty dog being washed. The Red Keep would soon be a bad memory, too. He was almost 30 years of age, old enough to be worn down by the dregs of time. Life would become an endless wine skin on some rocky shore in the Free Cities, life like a flame extinguishing under a glass bell.

The Little Bird was taken care of now. Her engagement to Ser Loras Tyrell had been nearly confirmed and seemed, like all other things, to be just a matter of time. She'd soon leave in a caravan, perfumed like a dream and emblazoned in damask, disappearing from court forever. She'd have some fine palace with her Knight of Flowers, dress in silk and velvet, and do her duties like a good wife. It would probably take years for her to figure out that her loving husband was buggering the stable boys, but that was another matter. He was sure that there would be some loyalist to the family that would happily take care of her own needs, sealing the honor of the family and smoothing over any discord. Ser Loras and his Lady Sansa would probably find that their marriage was a tender joy of endless decorating and entertaining and courtesies. She'd be a flowering Jonquil, and King's Landing would only exist as the thing that woke her up from her sleep with a shriek in her throat. Her gold embossed sheets would comfort her better than any white cloak could, and she'd fall into a new and better dream.

He was pleased that he'd saved Ser Loras from his brother, if only for the Little Bird. And even for himself. When she left the strange emptiness that she inspired in him could possibly abate. The hard wrenching in his chest when he laid eyes on her was enough to make him feel outside of himself. The absurdity of feeling anything at all for that little empty headed creature frightened him. He found her to be more terrifying than any sight that he'd seen before. Two days prior he'd happened upon her while walking the halls of the Red Keep. She'd been on her way to the gardens, and he'd been on his way to the wine sink. For the first time since he'd pulled her out of the bread riots she looked him in the eyes, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. She bent her knees as though she were to curtsy- her pleasantries seeping from her like a wound left open. Her eyes spoke of some secret, a strange happiness that he'd not seen since she was but a child at Winterfell. It made him feel as odd as one might feel if one woke up to find oneself transformed into a beetle. He greeted her with a sneer of petulance and roll of his eyes.

"Have you sunk so low that you'd kneel before a dog, girl?"

"What have I done to displease you, my lord?" She asked him, her voice imbued with strength where it had once only trembled.  
"You chirp too much." He answered before hurrying away from her, looking for some kind of shelter. The wine sink seemed farther away than the hills outside of Casterly Rock. His mind filled up with the rebellious thoughts that he'd worked so hard to conceal, and another thread was pulled loose.

* * *

The Hound half stumbled off towards his room, haphazardly wondering if the color had returned to his face. Another measure of his finely hewn self control had slipped- it was the tangle of red hair that was as brilliant as the blood on her corpse that threw him over. If recognition didn't happen as quickly as it did, a king slayer he would have become. How much had his face betrayed, that moment of shock? He wondered if his eyes had turned from stone to horror, if his face told the story of his thoughts? If they did, the King hadn't said a word or indicated notice. Treason happens that way, though- a gesture or a glance, enough to raise the suspicions of the King, his council. The Spider kept his own cache of little birds, the whispering faces that slipped through the kingdom like phantoms.

The Hound had been called to the side of the King by a nameless guard- insisted that he come quickly. The King had something to show him of great import. The Hound forgotten about the talk of archery and target practice like many of the other things that he didn't allow to take hold in his mind, thinking nothing of being summoned in the dark hours of the night. Since childhood Joffrey would summon him to his side for no reason at all. When he was just a small boy it would be because something frightened him, and he had no others to turn to. As he grew older he'd be called in the thick of a tantrum, or to be shown one of Joffrey's grotesque experiments. Once he'd taken one of Tommen's kittens to practice field surgery- the pitiful creature wailed like a creature from the lost world when The Hound found it. Its hind legs had been removed, and the stubs had been cauterized over an open flame. The Hound was expected to show how impressed he was by the boy's cleverness, and then snap the neck of the mewling wretch, nothing more. It was not within his station to beat the boy for his cruelty, or banish him to his room forevermore. The same as it was then, being called in by a guard at the King's behest was like the clockwork of the Red Keep. It was an exercise in his power as protector, and powerlessness as the King's human pet.

And now it was done. He'd seen the King's handiwork and was dismissed, to wander through the halls of the Keep with his stomach churning bile.

This wasn't supposed to be happening to him- he'd been beaten down enough. He'd emptied his head of all of the things that bound him to his childhood suffering. He'd burnt, he'd hardened, and he'd approached death enough to know its form and its particulars and not fear them, only accept them for their harsh truth. The body of a dead whore shot through with arrows and hanging from his King's four poster bed was not supposed to rip through him like daggers against old linen. And yet it was happening, completely outside of his control.

He knew that he must have the pallor of a ghost- knew it in his body and his blood. He only longed for his room, and solitude, and sleep. He wanted to drift off, far and away from whatever it was that was feasting in him.

* * *

The Spider, Lord Varys, waited in Sandor Clegane's solar, a single candle illuminating the room, flickering and casting shadows about like giants. He looked like a man made of the shades, not completely of this world. He smiled politely at Sandor, bowing his head to him, as calm as a gust of spring wind. It was as though he were meant to be in the room, like he wasn't an intruder.

"My Lord, I am so glad to see you. I was worried that I would have missed you. I wouldn't have shoved in, but late night conversation can be difficult in these situations- the social season has me exhausted and I just long for private conversation. Do you mind that I am here?"

At first sight of the Spider the Hound felt for the pommel of his sword, dropping it just as quickly. There was no use or reason to draw a blade against The Spider. The man seemed as though his life were made of mist that could disperse without effort. If he wished anything to happen to The Hound it would occur silently and without warning.

"How may I help you, my Lord?"

"Ah, yes, My Lord. A better title than Spider, don't you think? I certainly do. After all, being called by the name of another creature can be quite taxing. We tend to lose ourselves in our names, don't we Lord Clegane? You don't mind that I call you that, do you? I see more man in you and less Dog every day. I was wondering if you'd like to tell me why that is?"

_Lord Clegane_. Another sick wave rolled over him. _Treason begins in the eyes._

"You may call me by any name that suits you, my Lord."

"It suits me to call you by your true name. Sandor Clegane. Not the Hound of the Westerlands, youngest brother to the Mountain That Rides, body guard to the King and a White Cloak, but not a knight made. That is a title. I prefer the truth that a name provides. It is a wonder how men like you and I rise so high in our ranks, while others fall beneath the weight of their achievements, their titles. How is it that you have climbed the ranks so well?"

A measure of silence passed. The Hound knew that this wasn't a question, but a point that was intended only to indicate some abstract nuance of life at court- Lord Varys never said a word that wasn't laden with some deeper meaning.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you have seen the tragedy that has befallen that poor girl by the hand of our most beloved King. His tastes are so difficult to satiate, one cannot help but marvel at them." He sighed deeply. "But, please, we must exchange pleasantries. Sit, sit, I wish to speak to you of large matters."

The Hound took a seat, keeping a measured distance between himself and Varys.

"My Lord Clegane, you must not be so quiet with me. Speak freely, and speak as yourself. I know that you are a man of strong ideas."

"Am I?"

"Oh, yes. My little birds tell me all about your mind. It has even come to my attention that you have your own little bird..."

"What are you getting at?" He asked, wondering how badly he was diminishing in front of the Spider. He was an extractor of secrets. The Hound knew that he could speak as much or as little as pleased him, and Lord Varys would get his answers in the same fashion.

"So it is true, then? I'm so glad to hear it. Though, it might grieve you to hear of the newest developments in her engagement to the Knight of Flowers. She has been thrown over, and now our heroic Lord Tyrion is posed to be the benefactor of this change. He is set to marry our Lady Sansa, much to his and her mutual displeasure."

"And why in Seven Hells should I care about her marriage?"

"Of course. Why should you care? I suppose that you just saw the King's newest project- it seems to have shocked you, as it did me. A terrible tragedy indeed. The poor girl, Ros, was helping me with my own troubles, and it seems that a certain Mockingbird found her assistance to be unacceptable. She was sold at a heavy wage by the Master of Coin- former Master of Coin, that is, to our King. It appears that this same man has designs on our forlorn Lady, and I shudder to think of what he has in mind for her."

"I am not her keeper."

"No, you are right. You aren't her keeper today. But I am sure that there is some not-so-small part of you that wishes to_ assist_ her in her own struggles." Lord Varys tilted his head, searching The Hound's face. "You see, I worry that the impending marriage of Lord Tyrion to Lady Sansa would not benefit the realm, and would serve the purposes of a single house. I have it on the best authority that Robb Stark isn't long for this world, and that Lady Sansa is to become the most sought after jewel in Westeros. But, as you know, winter is indeed coming. A marriage in the North would suit no one, and her life has become that much more valuable."

"And this concerns me how?"

"I know that my associate Lord Baelish has designs on spiriting the young lady off to the Vale. His ship is already waiting in the bay, equipped with two featherbeads. Side by side, my little birds tell me. I worry that a marriage to the Lannisters will cause chaos in the North when we need men defending it against the horrors that live beyond the wall- and I worry that our Lord Baelish sees too much of Lady Sansa's mother when he beholds her. I believe that he would use the poor girl like a chess piece. I fear for her life in both of these situations. After all, you have seen what he will do to someone who displeases him- and what the King is capable of in his rage. I had attempted to make a match for Lady Sansa of Ser Loras, but I was alas overpowered in the end. I believed that a beautiful land and a beautiful knight would have suited her well. This is not to be. And yet, after much deliberation, I have found a better way to offer her safety and independence from those who would use her for her title."

"And what is that?" The Hound asked, his jaw tightening.

"It's simple, really. You."


	5. Sleepwalking

**I think that somehow I have managed to get myself Cleganed in a new way. I have been drunk for, like, two days. So, yeah, enjoy. Please leave me lots and lots of comment love.**

**Love,**

**Moa**

* * *

Did he hear himself saying yes? Was it ascent, was he allowing himself to be pulled through, or was he only drifting on the current like a bloated body long before drowned? He couldn't tell.

Lord Varys had eyes like shined marbles- so smoothly contoured that not a single thought escaped them. They reminded The Hound of the terrariums that he'd seen in the Maester's workshop when he was a boy- sealed worlds that were completely self sufficient. Keeping a secret was the true measure of a man, even greater than the length of a sword and the calluses on one's hand and the scars that ran across one's body. It was that grand self sufficiency that meant the difference between living and dying. The Spider was living, and The Hound was dying.

He must have said yes. This was the moment of consent. His face must have gone from ghost to beast- there must have been something that said it, if not words themselves.

"I'm sure you will find that the gold, in itself, is almost worth the deed." Lord Varys added, his half smile blooming into a look that almost mirrored contentment. He hadn't come because he thought that his idea would be rejected, The Hound knew this. "And besides, the Free Cities will agree with you."

* * *

There was life, and then there was that other thing that ran through the Red Keep- the back passageways, the endless continuum of twists and turns that ran through the palace like veins through a body. There are doors- and then, there are doors. The air in the passage was cold and dank and ancient- like the breath of a man come back from the dead. The King's Guard knew their own series of routes that led from one gate to another, an emergency door here and there, a king's passage, secret chambers, but The Spider knew the deeper places. Cavernous rooms that opened up like mouths, tiny hallways almost too narrow to traverse- stairs that wound in tight spirals, steeper than the Serpentine. He moved through the hallways, fleet footed on stones seemingly carved by the first men. The Hound followed him.

A hellhound on his trail.

The Hound rehearsed the plans, going over every detail. He wanted to check his thoughts and make sure there wasn't some great obstacle that he'd managed to overlook. Lord Varys' idea was already mad- there was no way around that. It wasn't the madness that overtook him, it was the strange ache that he felt in his stomach.

"There is going to be a riot tonight." Lord Varys said to him. He remembered that, kept that square in his mind. A riot was enough to distract the Red Guard for at least an hour. The depth of The Spider's influence was a frightening thing- he was going to cause enough distraction that a host of lowborn swine would die, just so that he could exact revenge on Littlefinger. Bugger Tyrion's wedding, bugger the realm- he knew that The Spider was interested only in losing what The Mockingbird was intent on stealing for himself.

Lord Varys would take The Hound as far as Little Bird's cage, and the rest was up to him- he was to spirit her away in the dead of the night to the docks, and board a ship bound for Essos. A task enough, never mind coaxing her into leaving. She seemed always so frightened, and in turns the terribly brave. The combination, The Hound knew, could be deadly- and could waste them the precious time necessary for escape. The Spider had taken care of every other detail, asking The Hound to do only the simplest of tasks. It seemed too easy, too seamless- he wanted there to be a hitch but he couldn't find it- only the Little Bird's quiet stubborn stupidity. It made him feel the same way he felt when he was at war: when the forest became too quiet, it was almost certain that something was terribly wrong.

The Spider had even thought up the grandest final gesture: he'd see to it that red headed prostitute would be thrown from Sansa's window, dressed in her gowns. The fall would do enough to obscure the features of her face, and the incompetence of the surgeon who would examine the body would surely do the rest. By the morrow, Sansa Stark would be dead and gone from the earth- perhaps she'd jumped, heartbroken of her failed engagement. With the imminent defeat of Robb Stark looming, the key to the North would be forgotten- a new family would rise. And Sansa would be protected by wealthy Pentoshi merchants who had a penchant for collecting the relics of destroyed families from Westeros.

All that was left to do was to follow The Spider, and catch the Little Bird.

Each step in the dark was crossing the distance towards this ultimate stupidity. If she died whilst he was trying to spring her from her cage, he'd kill himself. There would be no hesitation, that much was certain. It would be a clean plunging of his small knife into his throat. He'd choke on the cold steel and bleed out onto the ground. He wouldn't stand trial, he'd judge himself guilty. He'd already judged himself harsher than those who had been her abusers. Trial by combat would have revealed his guilt, if there was a man within the city that could match him in strength. A lopsided fight would prove nothing, save that he did not spare himself. Even then, it wasn't outside the realms of imagination to think that mayhaps he'd fall dead before any drunken knight, if only to prove his gnawing guilt. He'd even considered falling dead at the foot of the fool Ser Dontos, if it wouldn't further damn his Little Bird.

His.

Fucking his. Always his. His proprietary ownership, the clause in his mental contract with himself. It was either avarice or pure stupidity that made her his. It was this stupid thing that was making his legs and feet follow The Spider, that made it so that he had every fucking weapon that he owned strapped to his back instead of a bag filled with extra smallclothes or provisions. That made him squint in the dark, and try to shear away the threads fraying in his mind.

* * *

**Sansa**

A bent little moon smiled down through her open window, the air humid and stagnant. Sansa wondered how long the summer would hold- when finally the last gusts of hot air would fold from the sky and disappear, when hoarfrost and ice would hang from the eves of the Red Keep, when the Gold Road and the King's Road would just be paths underneath layers and layers of white packed snow, as tall as the trees in Deepwood Motte. Then, perhaps, every Lannister would freeze to death in their beds. She closed her eyes to think the dangerous thoughts- the Queen with Joffrey at her side, frozen beneath ice- it made the corners of her lips curl into a faint smile. This would be her only pleasure, dreaming of a winter that would come and crush them all. She'd survive them and return North one day, she knew it in her bones. Knowing was enough to stave off the nightmare thoughts of her new match, the third man promised to her. Her soon to be husband, her small wounded man- he was the thing that made her stomach churn as though full of spoiled milk. Perhaps even he would be forced below the ice, and she'd be free forever. It became her song- dreaming of the snow every night, the winter that would crush everyone. One day she'd sing it- it would be her song of the moonrise. A song to destroy every lion.


	6. Waking to Memories

The bag of diamonds that Varys gave him felt heavy in his purse- where the fuck the eunuch came up with those was beyond his imagining. He hardly heard the last words he'd said before leaving him in the dark, the end of the task in sight: something about avoiding blood magic. For the greater part of his life he'd listened to the rarely salient advice of men who thought that they'd managed to get their fingers around some truth, or even worse, the truth. There was always a warning or a curse: don't do this lest you should anger the gods, eat this for longevity, wear this for protection in battle. The only thing that any man needed to be told is to swing hard and forget honor. He had his diamonds and his warning against blood magic. For a moment before they parted the Hound thought that The Spider suddenly looked very different- as though his face had suddenly rearranged itself. A trick of the light and nothing more, The Hound told himself.

Fucking blood magic.

* * *

Sansa has barely on the verge of sleep when she heard her door open. She laid motionless, her heart beating a hole into her chest. The footsteps that she heard were not the lithe and gentle movements of one of her attendants, but the hard sound of a man full grown. She could hear the movement of armor, and her mouth went dry. She'd become increasingly afraid of the King and feared that he'd send a man to rape her. She wished with all her might that Shae was with her- Shae and her hidden dagger, Shae and her infinite courage. She wished that her bedclothes were made of steel. The room was completely dark, save for a sliver of moonlight that cast a dull silver haze across the floor.

The footsteps increasing, approaching her slowly and carefully. The silence that stood in between each footfall seemed to increase, until it shrieked in her ears like metal being tempered. She felt hyper aware of her entire body- every nerve and vein became overly apparent. She wanted to indicate nothing about her state of being, yet it seemed like her body wanted to betray her. She wanted to demonstrate the state of a corpse, yet she was sure that her very breathe would tell the story of her wakefulness. She had the sudden feeling of a man who remembered the worst part of a battle unexpectedly- she felt all over her the blows of her beatings, as real as though they had just happened. The door opening and the footsteps caused her to seize up completely, a choked noise coming from her throat.

"Little Bird?" She heard the Hound's voice, but it didn't cut through her panic. "Don't scream."

* * *

Sandor Clegane laid in his kennel, shivering from the cold. He'd grown weak and feverish, tired beyond imagining. His body was no longer his own, but a rough shell. The steel locked collar that he wore had caused his neck to long ago break out into sores, thick leathery patches having grown solid over time. He'd given up on trying to kill himself. For weeks he tried to hang himself with his chain, but only ended up spraining his arm and nearly breaking his leg. Now he just laid and waited for something to happen- anything at all. At night, when the winds came in and a chill ran across the yard he'd curl into a ball with the other dogs, sleeping with them. He'd been bitten by more fleas than a boy could ever imagine. He drank from bowls of water and ate scraps thrown at him from the kitchen. When he'd been condemned to live like a dog not a single detail had been spared. He even shit and pissed where the other dogs did their business. His clothing had worn down until all he had left to wear were nearly threadbare breeches and soiled underclothes kept only for warmth, and a dog blanket that he draped over his shoulders. He became a dog in every way. It was only in the small hours of the night that he would sometimes be wakened from his sleep by sudden warmth- he swore it was the spirit of his sister come to offer him what little comfort she could.

Sandor opened his eyes to the rising sun, and the sounds of chaos in the courtyard. A chorus of voices and the hollow clopping of horse's shoes were all about him. His brother was home- he was sure of that. He gritted his teeth and waited for what seemed like an eternity. His brother would never come home and leave him be. He sat for hours watching the yard, waiting.


	7. The First Kill

Sandor watched as his brother approached, followed by his hoard of men. They were drunk and looking to brawl- he could almost smell the viciousness seeping from their pours. Gregor dragged a man behind him, not even stopping to entertain his crying and pleading for mercy. Sandor forced himself to his feet- he'd be damned before he let his brother see him lying in the mud. He could only imagine how he looked: desperate and sallow and yellow eyed, pathetically caked in mud.

"Brother! You rise before a mountain!" Gregor cried out, looking as triumphant as a conqueror.

Sandor said nothing, gritting his teeth together, refusing to speak.

"Have you nothing to say to your beloved kin? No greeting, no well wishes?" Gregor asked, looking amused and sadistic.

"I hope the Gods find you well." Sandor muttered, his throat seizing around the words.

"They find me blessed. And you, a day or two away from your thirteenth name day. You look as though you have learned your station well since we last met."

Sandor looked him in the eyes, and then glanced at the man struggling on the ground. One of Gregor's friends kicked him in the side, causing all the air to leave his lips. He was screaming loudly, crying out for mercy.

"I've brought you news from Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister wants another member of the Clegane family to join his legions. I couldn't think of a better candidate than my own beloved brother. Tywin said he needed a good dog, and I thought I could offer him the perfect breed."

Sandor looked away, starring at his feet. Gregor came closer to the kennel, letting himself in, dragging his captive behind. Gregor threw the man at Sandor's feet, tossing his small knife dagger behind Sandor. It landed on the damp earth, getting covered in mud.

"Pick up the dagger, brother." Gregor ordered.

Sandor looked down at the man barely breathing before him, unmoving.

"Do I need to give you a fist to make you move quicker? Pick up the dagger, you whore-son."

Sandor clamored to obey, turning his back for only a moment, pulling the dagger up. "There, I have it." Sandor said, brandishing the knife for his brother and the men. They cheered and howled, amused at him.

"You look like you've become a giant since we last saw each other. Skinny, but how you've grown." Gregor intoned, smiling proudly. It made Sandor feel a sickness in the pit of his stomach, the way his brother spoke to him so sweetly. "Show me that you are no longer a boy. Show me that you've become a dog. Kill this man."

Sandor's eyes went wide and his mouth opened just slightly. He shook his head in disbelief.

"I've not killed a man before."

"Get to it, dog. I've not asked you a question, I've given you a command. Kill this man, and I'll have your chains removed. You'll go in and bathe and drink ale and sleep by the fire, and before the moon is half full you will be saddled and travel the Gold Road to squire for Knights and earn the privilege of your name. Now kill him."

The man at Sandor's feet was protecting his head with his hands, trembling and whimpering on the ground.

"What has this man done?" Sandor asked, his voice breaking.

"Done? I swear boy, another question and I'll make your life more hell than it is now. I don't think my friends would turn down the chance to bugger such a sweet young boy. Kill him, now, or face worse for yourself. You won't save him by delaying, you will only damn yourself."

Sandor swallowed hard and studied the man at his feet. He was cleaner than Sandor, though he was dirty still. His hair hung in muddy clumps, and his tunic was torn. He had a dented and stained gorget secured around his neck. Sandor's hands trembled around the hilt of the dagger. He chanced to look up at his brother and his companions, and knew that there was no empty threat in the possibility of a raping by these monsters. He knew that they were all bastards, each one worse than the other. If he didn't kill this man they would do it themselves, and drag it out with torture, and then they would bugger him until they all had their fill. The only option was to kill this man swiftly and without pain.

He knelt beside the man who struggled to escape him. He wanted to beg the man to forgive him, but before he could say the words he was upon him, driving the sharp tip into the space where the gorget pulled away from his flesh. The feeling of the knife entering the man's throat made him feel strange- the skin resisted the blade and then broke with a soundless pop, and the knife stopped when it found the bone in the neck. He was sloppy and couldn't pull the blade out proper, so he pulled it across his throat, causing an arterial spray to explode from beneath the gorget. The man struggled and choked, trying to yell while drowning from his own blood, causing Sandor to pull the blade out abruptly, and then sent it back down onto the man's eye, pushing down into his skull. Sandor jumped back when he realized what he'd done, and felt tremendous and ill and frightened and powerful all at once. He skittered away from the now still corpse, and his knees gave way from underneath him.

His senses were darkening, and his brother's men cheered loudly behind him.

Gregor stepped over the body and produced a key, freeing Sandor from his collar.

The men began barking like dogs, howling at the sky. The real dogs in the kennel snapped at the air and barked and growled, speaking to Sandor in the language he had learned. They knew that one of the pack was leaving them.

Gregor placed his hand on Sandor's head and tousled his lice infested hair.

"That's a good dog." He praised.


End file.
